


every touch of flesh

by LaughableLament



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs, Community: salt_burn_porn, Don't copy to another site, First Time, Jealous Sam Winchester, M/M, Mild Voyeurism, Mild and Temporary Dean/OFC, Mutual Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2020-10-18 04:54:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20633411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaughableLament/pseuds/LaughableLament
Summary: For the September 2019 round of salt_burn_porn on LiveJournal, and zara_zee’s prompt: “Every glittering kiss and every touch of flesh is another shard of heart you’ll never see again.”Sam isdonewatching Dean throw himself at strangers.





	every touch of flesh

**Author's Note:**

> Love and thanks to zara_zee for the evil, wonderful prompt; and to blackrabbit42 for running this _fantastic_ challenge!
> 
> This is me careening in jusssst at the deadline! No beta--hell I haven't proofread this thing. Edits (especially near the end) forthcoming. ♥

“Dean, are you sure about this place?” Sam’s seen his share of dive bars, obviously, but… 

“Hell, yeah!” He turns down a narrow alley, past clusters of smokers toward a gravel lot. Neon spills through half-closed blinds. Glass crash doors stand wide, let in crisp October air. “Best wings in the city, the desk clerk swore it.”

Sam questions the desk clerk’s credibility. “Well if you get salmonella you’re driving yourself to the ER.”

Dean makes a face. He parks the car and struts for the entrance. Sam follows through a cloud of perfume, sweat, and smoke—tobacco, hints of weed. Dean’s leather jacket sways around his hips. Dark blue jeans hug his legs. Sam tears his eyes away and they land on a weathered a-frame sign: _LADIES NIGHT_.

Sam grimaces. He’s fighting down the urge to pull out a pen and add the apostrophe when Dean, apparently, notices too. 

“Check it out, Sammy!” He bumps Sam’s shoulder. “Jackpot!” Waggles eyebrows.

Sam glares, low heat. 

Dean wilts. “Party pooper.”

Inside, battered booths line the walls; tall tables surround a U-shaped bar. Seat cushions spill orange foam through half-assed tape jobs. Screens flicker assorted college football games. Dean grins and his teeth glow in the black light above a menu board.

Sam has precisely zero interest in anything this place would call, _Special_.

They show I.D. to a bearded guy in a tank top with a sleeve tattoo. Bodies cram in booths and perch on barstools. Dean picks through the crowd to an empty, water-ringed table near a fire exit, hangs his coat on the curved chair back. Broad shoulders strain under his lucky, “Gettin-Laid” shirt. 

Sam scans for ambush points, escape routes. Picks out likely troublemakers, and worse, good-looking girls. Annoyingly, he spots a lot more of the latter than the former. Middle-aged waitress swoops in, takes their drink orders and leaves menus. 

Dean sits close so they don’t have to yell over the jukebox. “See anything you like?” Transparent. Only nominally talking about the food. Arms brush as Dean turns laminated pages. 

“French fries,” Sam says.

“Coward,” Dean snipes.

And Sam’s guilty on that count, but again—Dean’s tongue runs out, lips shine—not actually talking about the food.

“Look around, man.” Dean lays down the menu. “Place is beat-up, but it’s clean.” Knees bump under the table. “C’mon, Sammy, live a little.”

Sam folds. _And he says _I_ use puppy-dog eyes._ “All right.”

“Awesome.” 

Waitress brings their beers and Dean rubs his hands together. “We’ll have a dozen—” He looks at Sam. “Medium?”

“Extra hot.” He’ll show Dean _live a little_.

Dean hooks an eyebrow. “Extra hot!” He adds, “And extra ranch.”

“And fries,” Sam says. 

Dean sighs, dramatic.

*

Sam hunches over their dinner remains. Grease-stained paper in plastic baskets. Chicken bones, couple of ketchup smears. Two sad sticks of celery and a ranch cup, practically licked clean. Sam picks at the peeling label wrapped around his empty beer.

At the bar, Dean shares shots with a leggy brunette. Wraps his arms around her, holds the glass against her lips and tilts. She shudders; Dean laughs. Pulls her close and leans down, whispers filth in her ear; Sam knows his brother.

He also knows he drank too fuckin much. He’d like to piss but he’ll lose his table. Thinks about hoofing it back to the motel, making Dean sweat, maybe ditch the woman.

Dean turns her in his arms, drags his knuckles up her back. Stares down, eyes intense as he moves in. Flash of tongue. He licks his lips. Face disappears from Sam's view as Dean's hand curls behind her neck. Fingers tangle in her hair.

Sam imagines Dean’s soft hum, flavor of whiskey, beer, and hot sauce. Halfway across the room before he knows he’s on his feet. 

Dean backs off from the girl. Eyes lock on—wide, like he can sense Sam’s distress. Sam cuts toward the door and doesn’t have to look to know Dean follows.

“Sammy what—” Dean catches his arm. Breath steams in the cold alleyway. Sam whirls and bystanders slink back, give them space.

“I can’t—” Sam lurches, stomach roils. “I’m going back to the motel; it’s no big—”

“You that drunk?” Wide pupils and flushed cheeks. Fake smirk: “Knew you were a lightweight, dude, but goddamn.”

“It’s not—” Eyes close and his teeth grind. “M’fucked up, is all, nothing you have to—”

Dean’s palm slides warm up Sam’s neck. Smells like old leather and some kind of woodsy aftershave Dean’s been into lately. “C’mon, princess.”

Sam bristles.

“Let’s get you to the carriage.”

Sam meets his brother’s eyes and almost breaks it open right there, look on Dean’s face… Never could tell whether Dean was with him or just mirroring, and Dean sure as hell never would say. So Sam nods, leans on Dean all the way to the car—not that he needs to but he _can_, and Dean’s so warm and solid next to him, pressed in under his arm.

He lets Dean manhandle him into the passenger’s seat. Paws at him, puts his hands everywhere he can get away with. Dean soothes, clenched-teeth mumbles. Backs away, trailing fingers down Sam’s arm.

Quiet, ride to the motel. Engine noise and creaky seats. Nearby cars and far-off sirens. Not even the radio. 

“You gonna tell me what’s wrong?” Dean asks, finally, perched on the bed’s edge facing Sam.

Sam’s chin jerks, clipped _no_. 

“And since when do _you_ not wanna talk about shit?”

“Since when do you _want_ to?” Snippy.

Dean looks down.

Sam winces. “I…” How can he say this? “It’s just not a lot of fun for me, watching you—”

“Work my magic?” Feeble grin. Giving Sam an out.

But, “Watching you with someone else.” If Dean cold-cocks him, well… at least he’ll have his answer.

Dean swallows; throat clicks. 

“Not like you didn’t know.”

“Yeah, Sammy,” Dean murmurs. “I knew.”

“And you can get all, ‘I’m your brother; I’m supposed to protect you—’”

“Cause I am!”

“And _I’m_ telling you, every time I have to see you touch some girl, or kiss her… every time you come home smelling like…”

Dean’s hand swipes across his face.

Sam swings around, parks himself on Dean’s bed, thigh to thigh. “How does fighting this equal protecting me?” Dean looks away. “We spend our lives knee-deep in blood and shit and death.” He hooks Dean’s chin. “And we’re all we have. So if you…” 

Dean’s lashes flutter up. War in his eyes, loathing and longing. 

Sam brushes their lips. “If I’m wrong, this never happened. We can… blame the booze, whatever.”

Dean doesn’t move.

…_four Mississippi, five Mississippi_…

Sam sighs. At least Dean didn’t run. “I’m gonna shower.”

No sooner than he’s on his feet, Dean’s bed squeals. Just like that Dean sweeps his legs, drops him flat-backed on the mattress.

“You even know what you’re asking, Sam? What I wanna do to you?”

Dean’s hard dick against his thigh is an unambiguous clue. “Shut up and show me.”

Dean growls. Fucking _growls!_ Sam’s so hard so fast he sees spots. Dean’s knee rams between his thighs. Sam groans, spreads and rolls. Dean licks lips and grinds with him.

“Should see yourself right now,” Dean breathes. Finger-combs Sam’s hair back from his face. 

Sam arches. Dean’s mouth locks on his neck and Sam yelps. Scrabbles at Dean’s shirt, hikes up the back to get at skin. Dean pops to his knees and yanks it off, over his head. Amulet Sam gave him all those years ago slips through the neck, bounces and glints between his pecs. Sam sits up, kisses open-mouthed right on it. Quiet curse from Dean before he strips Sam to the waist. Sam drags their mouths together. Dean moans, rumbles in his throat and gropes and claws Sam’s back.

Tongues and teeth and lips. Hot breaths and belt buckles’ soft clicks. Sam hangs on, reels with his brother’s kisses. Taste Sam’s dreamed about half his life.

“More,” he begs, light-years past shame. “Please, Dean, don’t stop.”

“Sammy.” Through his teeth, jaws locked like pain.

Sam can’t let him back out now. He hits the bed, undoes his fly. “Feels so good, Dean.” 

He stares down, frozen. 

“Please. Take care of me.”

Dean crumples on him. Elbows dig in the mattress and he shakes it to the springs. Knees wedge between Sam’s thighs, and Sam works Dean’s pants open, tries to worm them down his legs. Dean chuckles, stands. “Pushy.”

“I am _sick_ of fucking waiting.” Sam kicks out of his shoes. 

“Yeah.” Dean nods. “So am I, but—”

_Here we go._

“Sam, are you sure?”

“Yes, Dean.”

“Cause… I mean, we… y’know… this…”

“Dean, I’m sure.”

“Like, sure-sure.”

“Bring me a Bible, I’ll swear on it.”

That gets a grin. “Wow, Sam, that’s pretty blasphemous.”

And Sam is officially done talking. He slides off the bed, hits his knees at Dean's feet. Pulls Dean's jeans down far enough to get at what he wants.

“Holy shit, Sam,” disintegrates into garbles as Sam wraps a hand around and licks up Dean's underside. 

He's got no clue what he's doing. Figures he can imitate what he likes, go from there. Dean touches Sam’s face, combs his hair back. Sam takes all he can, licks at the head. 

Dean rumbles, “Sammy,” and it almost does Sam in. Dean pulses, heavy on his tongue and it’s filthy and salty and better than Sam could’ve ever imagined. “M’too excited, man, ain’t gonna—” Sam sucks, caves in his cheeks and makes Dean hiss.

Then Dean’s pawing at him, hauling him up off the grimy carpet. Jerks Sam’s pants down to his knees and shoves him on the bed. Dean strips Sam, kicks his own jeans off his ankles. 

“Want you to come with me.” And Dean wraps both their cocks in his fist. Sam surges into him, humps Dean’s hand. Wet-slick with spit, mixed sweat and precome. 

Dean engulfs him. Heat and scent and steaming breath. Sam writhes, rocks under him. 

“That’s it, little brother, give it—”

Sam roars. Wet heat bursts between them. Dean quakes; bedsprings screech. Sam grabs on, kisses Dean. Brutal. Wild. Tears slip Sam’s eye corners and Dean’ll give him shit for that but—

“Fuck, Sammy, you okay?” 

Sam blinks. 

“Jesus, man, I didn’t mean—” Dean jumps up, staggering. “I’m sorry, Sam—” He reaches out, stops still. Like Sam’s too fragile to touch.

Sam grabs his hand. “I’m fine, you dumbass. I…” he looks up at the stained ceiling, “just… I got a little emotional; it’s—”

Dean tackles him. Grins wicked. “That good, huh?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Sam rolls eyes.

Dean gets serious. “Now I guess you wanna talk, huh?”

Sam nods, lip in his teeth. “Yeah…” He pulls Dean close. “Just, not tonight, okay?”

Dean exhales, relieved for both of them. Then, “So about that shower…”

Sam realizes just how gross they are.

“You lookin for company?”

Sam flips, rolls Dean under. Bumps their foreheads. “Yeah,” Sam says. “Yeah I guess I am.”


End file.
